It’s been two and a half weeks since my second hip replacement, a bit more than two months since the first. And I’m finally approaching the moment when I can look back and say, “It was worth it.” As of a few days ago, I’m getting around the house on one crutch, which leaves a hand free for pouring tea or emptying the dishwasher. I can pull on my own compression socks and cut my toenails and drive downtown. Best of all, I can press up from all fours into a downward-facing dog.
What I didn’t expect yesterday, as I spread my palms wide on my yoga mat and lifted my tailbone to the sky, were the tears. Moving from crutches into my first post-op yoga pose was a bit like coming home after a long journey to another land. Things are the same, but different. After twenty years of yoga practice, I arrive on my mat a beginner again, feeling my way forward tenderly. These two prosthetic hips? They are my new teachers. And I am a willing, humbled student.
There have been so many times over the last two years, when I found myself thinking, “I want my old life back.” This morning, sitting once again at my writing spot in the kitchen, healing and breathing, I find myself writing different words: “This is my life.” And every moment? Another opportunity to practice. Here, four lessons I’ve learned so far.
Some day your body will surprise you.
No matter what you see on the x-ray, no matter what the lab results show, no matter what the doctor has just diagnosed, no matter what operation you’ve just found out is in your future, one thing is for certain: the disturbing thing going on deep inside your body wasn’t part of your plan. Perhaps we all presume, in our secret hearts, invincibility. I certainly did. But my body has begun to teach me that there’s no special protection from pain, from aging, from death.
The moment my orthopedist flipped the switch on the light box and brought up the ghostly X-ray images of my two arthritic hips was the first time it hit me: I’m not indestructible after all. In fact, I’m not even in charge here. I’d done everything “right” — exercised regularly, eaten well, practiced yoga for years, bought well-cushioned new sneakers every spring. I was pretty sure all that good living was buying me both time and health.
And yet, the pain I’d been believed for months to be a groin pull was suddenly revealed to be something else entirely. And with that my illusions were shattered.
“Looks like you’ll be needing a couple of hip replacements,” the doctor said, pointing first to the bone spur that was not a groin pull at all – it looked like a shark’s tooth, sharp and vicious; no wonder I was gasping every time I moved my leg to the side — and then to the deterioration in the joints. “Bone on bone here,” he said, tracing the fuzzy line at the head of my left femur. “And clearly degenerating over here as well,” he said, pointing to the other side.
And so, standing there staring at the first of what would be many x-rays, I got a little wiser. I learned what advanced osteoarthritis looks like. And I realized I’m not in control of the way my body is succumbing to the realities of wear and tear, age, and mortality.
How you respond to that surprise is up to you.
You probably already knew this would be the second lesson. It took me a while to learn it though. Looking back, I now see I went through something akin to the stages of grief as I absorbed the news that at age 57 –still youthful in my mind — I already needed replacement parts.
There was denial. Surely, if I juiced every morning and cut out sugar entirely and chewed turmeric and sipped ginger tea and took glucosamine and saw a chiropractor and tried acupuncture and stretched a few times a day, I could avoid surgery. I did all those things. There were good days and bad days – that’s the way it is with arthritis– but the pain got worse.
There was anger. No, I didn’t have an incurable disease or even a frightening diagnosis. Even so, I indulged in my share of “why me?” moments. I watched a stream of college students running along the river in Cambridge one spring day, annoyed that they all clearly took their strong, straight legs and well-lubricated hip joints for granted. I waved to my adorable 80-year-old neighbor as she slowly jogged past my house, and silently cursed my own bad genes and bad luck. She was loping along, smiling, her white hair blowing in the breeze, and I was hobbling out to the mailbox. Yeah, I was pissed. (And perhaps this goes without saying — I was scared, too.)
Bargaining was irresistible. Ok, I would give up running for good, and tennis, too, if only I could hike. And then, fine, I could even let the hiking go, as long as I could manage a nice long walk. Or, even a short walk. I would modify my yoga practice, become more yin than yang, sit on two blocks, no on a chair, and I’d promise never, ever to even try to cross my legs again. Eventually, just walking up the stairs was hard. I gave up everything in the bargain, except the pain. (And although we don’t often admit this, pain is scary.)
I’m not the sort of person to sink into depression. But eventually depression and physical pain become inextricably intertwined. I think of all the days my husband and I would get up early for our morning walk, as we have always done, and how, after just a few minutes I’d have to turn back, admitting that the idea of a walk had become way more appealing than the actual experience. One by one, I lost all the physical outlets that have always relieved my stress and kept me strong and made me happy. Just getting in and out of the car was something of a project. Becoming increasingly sedentary I also became, almost imperceptibly, sad. “I feel as if I’m watching you get old before my eyes,” Steve said, more than once. That made me sad, too. (And it also made me scared – would I ever feel like me again?)
Acceptance, when it finally came, was a relief. A few days after the diagnosis, when I made an appointment with a surgeon in Boston, I was pretty sure I’d end up canceling it. Certainly in the eight long months between that initial phone call and his first available consultation, I’d cure myself! (See “denial.”) By the time I finally made my way to the surgeon’s office, all I wanted was two dates, one for the right hip and one for the left.
I had to wait five more months for the first surgery, and during that time my self-pity slowly gave way to gratitude that I had such good options. I couldn’t control everything, but I could control some things. And my own attitude was at the top of that list. Soon, I could shift gears at last, from coping to healing. I would begin the new year with two new hips. I hadn’t failed myself, I was taking care of myself. I was on a new path, toward renewed health and strength and mobility. I had family and friends ready and willing to support me. I could begin to make plans for the future. There was so much to be thankful for. It took a while, but I got there. (And perhaps this goes without saying – I was still scared.)
Ask for help. Then accept it.
This seems obvious. And yet as an able-bodied, nurturing, middle-aged mom I’ve been so much more comfortable being a caretaker than receiving care myself. I suspect I’m not alone in this. But people do want to help, and it’s our job to let them know how.
A year or so ago, on the evening before going into the hospital to have a kidney removed, a friend of mine sent out a group email, asking each recipient to pause the next day and send her healing vibes at the hour of her surgery. I felt so privileged to be on that list, glad both to be reminded of my friend’s surgery and honored that she wanted me to be part of her circle of support. Later, she said she felt all the love coming her way, that she rode that wave right into the operating room.
And so, the night before my first surgery, I followed her example. From Maine to Hawaii, good wishes poured into my email box. The next day, lying on the gurney in the pre-op room, watching the old-fashioned clock on the wall tick toward the appointed hour, I grew strangely, unexpectedly calm, even before the sedatives began to drip into the vein in my arm. The fear that had dogged me for weeks leading up to this moment melted away, replaced by something I can name only as peace. Was I held in an invisible web of care? Maybe so. Seven weeks later, the same thing happened again. Silent, stealthy, sacred: this is soul territory, the mysterious awakening of the energies of love.
Coming home from the hospital on Christmas eve, with little choice but to accept helplessness, I watched from my chair as a meal came together in the kitchen, one son making soup, the other assembling a salad with a friend, Steve pouring champagne and fixing my plate. Christmas cookies arrived at the door.
Saying yes to help was new to me. Having my husband help me into my underpants was new to me. Asking a friend to vacuum my kitchen floor was new to me. Accepting every offer of assistance that came my way was new to me. And yet, what lovely gifts these weeks have brought: delicious dinners, bags of groceries, fresh juice and homemade biscotti, a clean garage, rides to appointments, flowers and cards and books to read, an exercise bike for home, a hospital bed for daytime naps.
Saying yes to help is a way of saying yes to things as they are. Saying yes to help is about softening around the edges and loosening the boundaries. It’s about accepting that life is not to be controlled but surrendered to. And in that surrender, something new and beautiful begins to grow: the kind of openness and intimacy that deepens and fortifies a friendship, that burnishes a marriage, that acknowledges how very much we need each other.
Some day your body will surprise you again.
It happened sometime around three a.m., two nights ago. I was awake, content to be snug in my own bed, listening to the rise and fall of my husband’s breath. It was as cold as it’s been all winter, the sky crystalline, the bright crescent moon climbing higher, until it slipped into a dark tangle of branches in the maple tree outside the bedroom window. Stretching one leg out long and then the other, flexing my feet, I realized that for the first time in recent memory I felt no pain: no pain from arthritis, no pain from an incision, no pain from a new prosthesis, no pain from traumatized muscles. Nothing hurt.
Lying there in bed, at peace, relaxed and comfortable, I was acutely aware that something had shifted, deep beneath my awareness, from struggling to healing. This is me, I thought. Not perfect or intact, but not broken, either. It felt like a miracle.
While I have been diligently doing my exercises and taking my vitamins, drinking water and eating green veggies, resting and celebrating each small step of progress, my body has been doing its own invisible work. Day by day, I’m getting better. And for me that’s been the other big surprise: it turns out that even my wrinkled, saggy, puckery 57-year-old body is possessed of extraordinary regenerative powers.
And so, this paradox. So much of growing older is about learning to surrender, relaxing our attachment to what was and trusting that we are where we’re meant to be. At the same time, for as long as we’re alive, we dance in partnership with these mortal, resilient, remarkable, vulnerable bodies. And being a good partner means treating these bodies with loving care and respect, listening carefully to what they are telling us, and creating a calm, nurturing environment in which self-repair can continue to happen. We are all aging and healing at the same time. Growing a little every day and dying a little, too. This, it seems to me, is the holy wonder of the human journey, its beauty and its frailty. As Rilke writes, “Life always says Yes and No simultaneously.”
“I feel so lucky,” I said to my mom this morning. “I have all this time now that’s just for me.” It’s true. Although I knew I’d spend the month of January recovering from surgery, I didn’t ever expect these post-op weeks to feel like either a vacation or a gift, but it turns out they are both. I’m grateful for each quiet, solitary, elongated day. For expanses of time to nap and read and stretch and be. For nourishing food provided by dear friends, for texts that ping on my phone to say “I’m thinking of you.” I’m grateful for good books and dark chocolate and fresh coffee. Grateful to have no place to go and nothing much to do. (Except for PT appointments, my calendar is strangely, beautifully empty.) I’m grateful for a fire to sit beside and for my husband’s evening foot-rubs and for early bedtimes. For starry night skies and crystalline winter sunrises, for the cardinal at the bird feeder and for the pure rose light at dusk. I’m grateful for every step I take without pain. And I’m gratefully still learning all these lessons, it seems. Yes, always learning to be fully present.
We look with uncertainty
We look with uncertainty
beyond the old choices for
clear-cut answers
to a softer, more permeable aliveness
which is every moment
at the brink of death;
for something new is being born in us
if we but let it.
We stand at a new doorway,
awaiting that which comes…
daring to be human creatures,
vulnerable to the beauty of existence.
~ Anne Hillman
Lovely. Thank you for sharing your journey. Keep healing.
So glad to hear your surgeries went well.
What an uplifting story of the journey, before and after such a life changer for you.
I promise to not have any ‘pure me’ moments with my own ailments of my aging body without remembering reading your blog of Acceptance.
Thank you for sharing.
You are amazing! I don’t know if I could be as strong as you through a challenging time of double surgeries. Your creative and musical words touched and moved me. I love how you turned your recovery as a vacation. No place to go & nothing to do. I can identify with you, I had a pretty significant surgery 4 years ago. I too felt like a beginner with getting back with yoga. Your writing brings me peace and content. I am so glad you are experiencing no more pain and improving every day. Keep taking care of yourself! Sending lots of warm healing vibes!!! I want you to know you are one of my heroes. I wish you many beautiful winter days. Enjoy your extended vacation. Hugs & Love
Thank you for sharing your story. I have had more sad surprises than I’d like, and you captured beautifully the struggle to accept and move forward. Recently I was inspired by Ariana Huffington when she said, “Life is a balance between making things happen and letting things happen.” I want so much to make things happen. I learn so much by letting them happen. I am glad to hear of your increasing healing. I pray for your complete recovery. Or as recovered as we aging humans recover. 🙂
Life can be so unexpectedly amazing if we stop to pay attention. I love yourndescription of your healing- yea! And thank you for the much needed reminder to always be present.
Thanks for your enlightening words. I am struggling with back pain mostly caused by osteoarthritis. Just tried something else ( facet joint injections); on too many painkillers and feeling a bit low. Looking for inspiration and found you. Thank you again.
I just turned 72 and have never experienced surgery. Have been in the hospital twice having my son and daughter. Am aware how blessed I am to experience such good health and will print out your honest accounting to bolster my courage when that inevitable day comes. Love your writings.
When I read those words about how you couldn’t accept the news that you needed the replacement they could have been my words. And the annoyance at seeing others walking with no problem, my words too. How lucky we are to regain our freedom to walk and dance and do anything we want again. We are lucky to live in an age where it is possible. Thanks
Delighted that you are back on the “blog” again!!….but even happier to read about your healing and recovery success. Sending all positive energy for continued strength.
Tears are streaming as I read this of your painfully beautiful journey. I went on a similar one recently with my knee at age 42 and have felt some of these feelings and have been surprised at the permanent changes it made in me – not all good but all wisdom. My mom is in need of double knee replacement and I will send her this essay to ponder. So good to be reminded of the yes with the no, the pain with the healing of life. Keep stretching and healing Katrina. Many blessings to you!
Dear Katrina – As always, you are lighting up the world by being yourself. Beautiful, strong, thoughtful and wise. Please keep taking good care of yourself. I send much love your way.
Priscilla
God Bless you and hold you in the palm of His hand. I/we are sending you healing thoughts. I made your grandma’s granola the other day and thought of how many times we’ve enjoyed it and all of your wonderful writings about so many experiences we all share in life. You are an inspiration!
A few lines from me:
Over The Mountain
I have come.
Boulders tumble away
Under my furious feet.
It won’t take me long to pierce
the next peak with my
staff of strength.
Over The Mountain
I have come.
The clouds have parted
because I’ve breathed in
the magic oxygen.
I have blown up
the wind.
Over The Mountain…..Excerpts from Ellen Friel.
Oh, Katrina! As a fellow yogi, I burst into tears right along with you when you pressed back from table into that first down dog. Congratulations on finding yourself on THIS end of your hip saga. As it happens, I’m heading into a new phase with my own body (and yoga practice). I’m a year older than you, and it’s my hip too–but it’s soft tissue, not bone that’s causing me problems. So it’s doubtful that surgery will be needed (unless the MRI I just had shows a tear in the labrum, but my PT doesn’t think so–she thinks it’s bursitis on the outside of the hip and some tendinitis in the TFL on the inside….) Anyway, I have learned the hard way that more or less ignoring it (for eight months! -what did you say about denial???) didn’t do the trick; it didn’t get better by itself (perhaps it would have if I were still 30, who knows…. then again perhaps these things don’t happen when we’re 30). So yesterday I came to the conclusion that I probably need to stop taking class for a while and give my body some time to really rest and heal…which is tricky because I also have some arthritis, so I need to keep things moving or they stiffen up (and hurt worse, etc.) Tough decision, depressing in any season but especially (for me, anyway) in winter, which tends to depress me anyway…. SO it was wonderful to read about you coming out the other side, and hearing the story in your voice (which always makes me glad). Thanks for sharing. You’ve given me a little more strength for the next leg of my own journey. xo
I love how you expressed what our bodies can teach us and how they can both decline and heal at the same time. I’m so glad to read that your January is unfolding in such a peaceful, restorative way. I wish you lots of good walks to come.
“vulnerable to the beauty of existence….”
i tuck this beautiful tapestry of hard-won wisdom in my heart pocket, gleaning the lessons it offers for the now, knowing the day will come when i must circle back and pay deeper attention. i’ve never ever been good at understanding that my body is my most essential vessel, and that i need to be as kind to it as i try to be to others.
you’ve woven yourself a cocoon of beauty, of gentle and hard-won acceptance. thank you for going the distance, and turning back to share with us the truest things you’ve learned. and may your healing deepen and deepen all through the quiet stretch of days ahead. bless you and thank you……
Thanks so much for all of your insights and shared wisdom. It never ceases to amaze me how your words always strike a cord with me and how I always walk away a bit more enlightened.
I always enjoy reading your wise words, but this post really connected with me….I’m your age facing double knee replacements. I hope you realize how inspirational your words are …we are blessed to read them. Enjoy your recovery time and continue to nourish yourself. Thank you
So glad to hear you are on the other side of your surgeries, Katrina. And I do hope there is another book in you about aging, accepting the inevitable limitations and what it feels like to be a woman on the other side of middle age. Xo
Having been the recipient of two hip replacements and most recently a second knee replacement, I sympathize with you. My first hip was done at the age of 48, my most recent knee was done just this Sept.
All the emotions you mentioned were part of my daily routine. I believe that in order to be our best selves, sometimes we need a little help. Thank god, in this time we live in, there is help. I am 5 months out from my operation and every day I walk down my stairs…I do a little dance of thanks. I sent my orthopedist a big gift basket for the holidays. I feel so blessed to get out of the living room chair. Every day I walk somewhere. Thank you so much for writing exactly what I have been experiencing too. Best wishes for a speedy recovery and a healthy New Year.
Take time to appreciate each step.
Thank you for your beautiful reflections, Katrina. I am an 11 year breast cancer survivor, and if there was anything I learned on my journey is that there is ALWAYS someone else far worse off than I am. It helps me to keep that in mind whenever I drift toward that “why me” attitude. “Why NOT me” seems to be a more apt question to ask. Sending good wishes to you for continued healing and a wonderful 2016.
After shattering and severely dislocating my ankle last October, I, too, find myself at the intersection of what was and what is, a place of near inertia hemmed at both ends with wishes: I wish for the freedom I fear I took too much for granted before my fateful tumble; I wish my lot in life didn’t have to mean months of rest in a chair with my ankle propped. This has been a time of Yes and No for me, a balance between wrestling with pain, worry, and immobility and learning to accept my life just as it is, embracing each moment as it unfolds, conscious of my blessings – the view of woods from my window; the loving care I’ve received from my husband, family, and friends; the slow, almost imperceptible ways I being to heal… Although I wish this path is one I didn’t have to travel, I know I’m being offered a continual opportunity to discover the pearls of beauty and wisdom hidden in even the most difficult things…
I rejoice with you as your arduous two-year struggle with pain-ridden hips is drawing to a close at last! My dear friend, you have traveled this journey with grace and fortitude. This lovely essay is a testament, a gift, an offering of understanding and a beacon of hope to all of us who struggle. Thank you.
P.S. This Anne Hillman poem is wonderful. xoxo
Thank you for sharing this. I have struggled in the same way you have written about. I am 58 and scheduled for a knee replacement. Your entire journey describes my very own. Just as in your book ” Magical Journey” I am amazed that in this blog your words could be mine! I am so grateful for your writing . It truly reminds me of our shared humanity and helps me out of my isolation that comes from seeing oneself as separate and alone in my struggles. Thank you and best wishes for your continued recovery.
Wow beautiful article… Reading it brought tears, this has been my life for the last 2 years… Gearing up for my second hip replacement in a few days…. Missing my Life but looking forward to what’s ahead.!!! Wishes of Wellness
So, so beautiful. Thank you for writing this.
So beautiful! I love how you look at life and getting older. It makes me feel peaceful in my 57-year-old body as well. Thank you -what a gift!
Beautiful!
Your words are so real, thoughtful and comforting. My good friend is having her first hip replacement this coming week so I will forward this to her.
Thanks
Catherine
I told you this before and feel the need to do so again Katrina. When I see your name in my inbox I always have a moment of delight – like when a dear friend sends a note. I get myself a cup of coffee or tea and simply tuck in to read. I cherish every word you write and the stories always fit with where I am at. As an RN I am thrilled with reading of your healing progress. Good for you! As a woman, thank you for sharing so deeply as you do with us. Much love and big hugs.
Here’s to more faith, less fear, knowing that we ARE held with great love while we take each step, one after the other. Peace to you in this new year and thank you for your elegant words.
Katrina,
Sending positive thoughts your way as you continue to heal. Thank you for sharing your journey. You are forever inspiring!
Katrina,
I love love the peaceful scene you have right outside your kitchen window, it is beautiful!
then I sobbed reading your words about how much your husband has helped you
I am 69 and live alone and my hip is causing me a lot of pain but I have avoided
going to the doctor because I am afraid she will tell me I need surgery and I can’t
face this alone, asking for help is the hardest thing for me to do and I know this
would mean I couldn’t stay in my house alone so what would I do. I do have some
lovely friends but they have busy lives, so I am very worried how I would do this
to go into a nursing home would kill me. I wonder how long I can endure the pain.
You have such a gift with words and I too get excited when I see your email appear.
I will reread and reread what you have said and I am sure it will give me strength.
I wish you a full recovery and that 2016 is your best year ever!!!
Thank you for this lovely and encouraging post. I am going to repost it to a Facebook group to which I belong (for a particular illness we all have shared) for them to read. God bless you in your recovery!
I so much admire the way you allow yourself to be vulnerable and make your personal stories so meaningful and relevant to every one of us. Plus you do it so beautifully with your words and images. There is such power and goodness in that. I’m sending this along to a friend who is facing hip replacement surgery soon, and I know your words will enrich her.
Thank you for this lovely post and I am grateful to hear that you are healing. You are a gift to all of us. Such wise words you share.
Blessings and prayers for your continued healing,
Mary Ann
p.s. Three years ago I was suffering from a very rare auto-immune condition and was in severe chronic pain; I am still amazed and ever grateful that my body was able to heal as well as it did. And I still remember what it felt like to finally feel no pain; it was such a miracle.
Thank you for sharing your struggles and pearls of wisdom and beauty. I read this post with special interest as my husband had both hips replaced , one in August , one in September. It certainly is a journey on many levels for me as well. Thank you for your reflections- I will share them with him. Blessings on your continued healing.
Yes. I used to hear older runners say “I can’t run anymore because of their knees.” I’d offer sympathy but inside I was like, knee pain? How bad can it be? I’ve run through ripped muscles, wrenched ankles, shin splints, about every sort of pain. Knee pain won’t sideline me. Well, three decades of running later and I’m now the one telling the younger sorts that I can’t run — it’s more of a shuffle I do twice weekly — because of my knees. I never thought I was invincible, it’s more that a body breaking down happened to old folks and that was a lifetime away. Till it wasn’t. I hope knee replacements aren’t in my future, but they might be. Thanks for your honest and inspiring words. Hope you feel like yourself very soon.
Thanks for sharing! As a PT that treats people in the hospital just after their hips (knees, shoulders, ankles…) are replaced, we often don’t get to hear “the rest of the story” of the journey back to life once patients go home to continue healing. I’m happy to hear your journey is taking you to wonderful places. Be kind to yourself!
I am also your age and feeling “how unfair” thoughts about facing pelvic floor repair surgery—an elective surgery that I hoped to avoid. Reading your essay has given me the courage and determination not to put it off much longer. When it involves getting quality back into life, it is not elective surgery.
As I read your post that resonated so deeply with me this quote came to mind.
“We’re all just walking each other home.” – Rumi
Thank you for sharing your journey with all of us. I am so grateful to be able to walk along with you.
Thank you for going forth first…
and for shining light on the path for those to come…
This made me cry future-knowing tears…
“Coming home from the hospital on Christmas eve… one son making soup, the other assembling a salad with a friend, Steve pouring champagne and fixing my plate. Christmas cookies arrived at the door.”
And thank you for this painful teaching:
“Saying yes to help is about softening around the edges and loosening the boundaries.”
And this joyful one:
” it turns out that even my wrinkled, saggy, puckery 57-year-old body is possessed of extraordinary regenerative powers.”
Katrina,
Thank you. May you continue to recover with strength, faith, and hope. Your insights, your reflections, your observations resonate deep within and I typically have tears. Tears of connection as your words reveal/reflect sentiments within my own spirit and heart. I admire your gift of language and how you so clearly and eloquently express your current sense of being. Your words offer me the ability to contemplate for my own self-reflection. Please continue to share as you give voice to a common but individual journey. Gratitude to you for you and all that you do. Take care.
Ever grateful for your honest heart sharing. I’ll be passing your words along perhaps to ease another’s journey.
Oh wow Katrina. You have outdone yourself again, as Priscilla said, by just being yourself. These are the most beautiful wise words: about how scary things are, how brave we must be, and about the multitude of grace that rains down.
“This is me, I thought. Not perfect or intact, but not broken, either.”
I have not read anything more beautiful or true.
Thanks so much. Just what I needed to read today.
Beautifully written. Thank you.
I keep being astonished at what happens when I ask for help, when I surrender the notion I must do this all alone, when I give up having to control it all. Much beauty, many gifts have come from it.
Thank you for reminding us that we are healing and dying all at the same time.
Dear Katrina,
I am happy for the healing that is taking place both physically and mentally for you. You have the beginnings of your next book with this beautifully written essay. I would love to read a book to help ease myself through this next phase of life (I am also 57) with as much care and love as you wrote in Mitten Strings.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to love our aging bodies and our changing rhythms as tenderly as you taught us to love our babies?
Your writing brings me such joy! Glad you are healing. Thank you for sharing your journey.
Thank you for sharing the good times with the bad. Thank you for sharing what’s in your heart. And most of all, thank you for giving us all an opportunity and a place to send you well wishes, glad tidings and healing vibes. Take care of you, Miss Katrina. This too shall pass and you’ll be enjoying your long walks come spring before you know it!
Thank you Katrina for sharing so much with us. I am blessed to know you through your books and your blog. Healing thoughts sent your way!
Katrina, this is poignant for me, as I am 3 months out from total knee replacement. Still dealing with pain and stiffness, making slow and steady progress toward the new normal. There are gifts in these transitions, prayers of so many, attentive and loving husband, and slow return to my yoga mat with lots of props. That is ok. This is life now. And the day will come when the pain ceases and I am glad I got this new body part. No, we are not invincible but we are resilient.
A gorgeous read! Thank you for your continued insight and openness in sharing. Love Rilke, by the way! Sending you healing thoughts.
Even though you are only a few years younger than me, somehow back in the 70’s when I worked for your dad you seemed like kid and I was a grown-up. And now, I see you as a companion on this journey…and your words bring to me a power, a poignancy and a peace that make a real difference. Yup…even bigger than floss!! Thank you.
So grateful I literally stumbled upon your web page and writing! I pin tears just a month prior to my own 1st hip replacement and as a “surgery virgin” at 60! My boundaries and depression from the physical pain had created a denial of facing the surgery. Also sending my youngest of 3 kids on a world adventure post college graduation… Left me just overwhelmed with the empty nest and feeling “used up”
Well, THR Surgery was 1 week ago today….I can honestly say I feel reborn! Your writing has been such a blessing and your various topics & archives have been so nourishing!
I think of you often especially as I hear of the winter storms as they approach your area!
Thank you for being so spiritually nourishing for us all. I too look forward to every posting , so I can get my tea and and have some me time
Thanks for sharing your experiences with the double hip replacement surgeries. I am 63 and will undergo both hips being replaced, first surgery April 15 (after I return from a Tulum Mexico retreat with Rolf and Mariam Gates, then the second 3 months later. Marian suggested I read your blog and it is very helpful.
Like so many, I have been following your work for years, having read Mitten Strings a decade ago when my own sons were young, and then The Gift last summer, amid the throes of their adolescence. And now this: Acceptance, as I continue to recover from back surgery in December. I have begun teaching yoga again, but only the gentlest of practices. It remains to be seen whether I’ll ever be able to find the shape of a downward dog, to say nothing of other postures. But I, too, am grateful for every motion and every moment without pain. See http://www.theoryandpracticeofbeing.wordpress.com (PS Thamks to you, I will also be researching osteo arthritis on my mother’s behalf, as your symptoms sound so similar to hers.)